The Hush

by John Hart

  “Damn it.”

  She shoved the phone in her pocket for the eighth time. What could she say? He was already half-dead when I found him, then something terrible dragged him into the woods. They’d think her insane or on drugs, or maybe that she’d killed him herself. There must be smart cops somewhere. One of them would figure out the lawsuit and see it the wrong way.

  Uh-uh.

  Not happening.

  In the kitchen, Cree’s mother sat at the table, a glass in her hand. She was drunker than normal, a tiny thing in the small, hard chair. “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I fell. It doesn’t matter.”

  “You look like you’ve been dragged behind a mule.”

  Cree dropped the backpack, and the day rolled over her like a wave: the blood and twisted bones, the long trip out and the dream that sent her in the first place. She was frightened—utterly terrified—and this was what she had in life: a rented box in a rotting building, a mother too thoughtless or drunk to know her daughter’s world had come undone.

  “Get me some ice, will you?” Her mother held up a glass and rattled the melted cubes. “Go on, then.” She shook it again, and Cree blinked in the stillness that followed. She saw her grandmother and her childhood, and was suddenly crying. She pictured her great-grandmother, too: the ruined eyes and scarred hands, the way she liked to smile and nod, and how she felt at night, as dry as a leaf and warm in the big bed. “Why did you send me there? I was only four years old.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “Tell me why.”

  “It’s no secret.” Her mother lowered the glass, and lit a cigarette. “They wanted you, those old women. They thought you’d be special.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’d have to ask them, wouldn’t you?”

  “Let’s talk about you, then.” Cree sat, but was unforgiving. “Why did you run away?”

  “What?”

  “You left the swamp when you were nineteen. We’ve never discussed it.”

  “Because it’s none of your business.”

  “Grandmother said you were afraid.”

  “Is that right?” Cree’s mother frowned and poured vodka over melted ice. “Has it occurred to you that I wanted something bigger than life in the swamp, something better than mud and chiggers and men of low ambition?”

  Her mother looked away, and Cree saw the old stubbornness in her face. It made her angry and bitter. “You know, I make this very easy for you: the bad men and laziness, this.” Cree nudged the bottle, her gaze remorseless. “I shop. I clean. Now I want something in return.”

  “What?”

  “I have dreams.”

  The words fell into a vacuum of sudden silence. Her mother’s shoulders rolled inward. Her chin settled low, and the response, when it came, was very quiet. “What kind of dreams?”

  “Terrible ones,” Cree said. “The hanging tree and slaves and murdered men. I see it like I was there.”

  “Stories,” her mother said. “Everybody knows about the hanging tree. We’ve all heard the stories.”

  “It’s too real,” Cree said. “I know what they looked like and smelled like and how they screamed. I’m holding the knife. I know their names.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Two are slaves. One’s a foreman—”

  “I said no, damn it. Dreams are just dreams.”

  Her voice broke, and Cree saw the lie in her mother’s face, the shiftiness and fear, the thirsty swallow. Her eyes were on the bottle; Cree beat her to it. “What’s in the swamp?”

  “You should have asked my mother, you loved her so goddamn much.”

  “I was just a kid.”

  “You think age matters, you stupid girl? You think it mattered for me?”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I told you once—”

  “I dream of Johnny Merrimon, and the dreams are true.”

  Her mother rocked back in the seat, her mouth open as if slapped. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare.”

  “It happened last night.”

  “Not this far from the swamp, it can’t. Not this far away.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “I’m sorry, no.” The older woman stood, and the chair fell over as she shoved it left and stumbled from the room. Cree heard a door slam, and knew the lock had dropped, too. In a still-dazed state, she straightened the chair, then ran water in the sink, washing dirt from her palms and scrubbing gently at dried blood from one of her falls. Cree had seen her mother drunk, angry, and bored, but never like this, not panicked and afraid.

  Trailing down the same hall, she knocked at her mother’s room, and heard rustling beyond the door.

  “Go away.”

  Her mother was crying, too: a dreadful sound. “I’m afraid of the dreams,” Cree said.

  “You should be.”

  “Is that why you left?” Nothing. Silence. “Are you still there?”

  Cree heard a long sigh, then another silence. “Few have the dreams. Most don’t. No one’s ever had them outside the swamp.”

  “But you had them?”

  “The hanging tree, yes. So did your grandmother, your great-grandmother. It finds the women in our family. The girl with the knife. What happened at the tree. I’ve tried to leave that behind. Don’t you see? There are other dreams, worse dreams. You’re too young to know.”

  “I’m the age you were when you ran away.”

  “Sweet Lord…”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Talking about it makes it worse, like opening a door. They come darker then, and faster. It’s like drowning.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t, you stupid child, you stupid, foolish girl.”

  “What do I do? Mom…”

  Cree’s voice trailed off, and she pressed a cheek against the door. The old women had told Cree she was special, and that she’d come to them for a reason.

  “Please…” She said it again, her fingers on the door. “I don’t want to dream.”

  There was no response, and she didn’t expect one. Her mother was a coward; she’d always been one. Turning away, Cree returned to her room, and on the bed, she hugged herself. When she began to nod, she crept onto the roof of the building and sat in an old chair she’d found there years ago. Traffic sounds rose up the walls, and city lights burned in other towers. Cree watched the moon rise, and by midnight sleep was circling.

  What if she dreamed again?

  What if she saw things?

  Settling deeper, she watched clouds roll across the moon. Exhaustion pressed down, and she drifted twice. There was no wind. The world was heavy. Cree struggled for hours, then blinked a final time as darkness pooled at her feet, and she fell through.

  She was choking in the black.

  Buried alive.

  * * *

  The shock of it was like an electric current. She couldn’t breathe or see. Damp earth crushed her.

  She was Cree.

  And someone else.

  A scream forced her lips, but dirt fingers snaked inside.

  She was choking …

  Dying …

  * * *

  Cree woke, screaming so loudly that birds erupted from the parapet across the roof. Cree barely noticed. They were black; everything was black.

  She fell from the chair, retching; tasted dirt but there was only bile.

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  On her hands and knees, Cree thought of God, as she’d not since early childhood.

  It was real.

  So damn real.

  Finding her feet, she stumbled into the building and down to her room, where she locked the door and swore to God she’d never sleep again. When the sun rose, she was hanging by a thread. She stayed in the room, didn’t eat or drink or risk the bed. At sunset, her mother turned on the TV, so Cree went back to the roo
f to be alone in the open air.

  She knew things from the dream.

  Terrible things.

  She watched stars come out as if she’d never seen them before, and at times she touched her face, expecting a broader nose, smaller eyes. When the moon rose, she was in the same chair, and when it set, she was still there, wrapped in a blanket and fighting sleep as if her life depended on staying awake. Three hours past midnight, clouds rose in the west, and Cree’s head dipped as thunder rumbled and wind on the rooftop made a lullaby of lost words. In time a raindrop fell, but Cree didn’t feel it.

  She was buried alive.

  Screaming in the earth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bonnie Busby had been the district attorney long enough to recognize the sheriff’s mood, and unpleasant words rose in her mind as she watched him across the desk.

  Dogged.

  Unreasonable.

  Blind.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Sheriff Cline, but Trenton Moore has ruled out Johnny Merrimon as a possible killer. The trauma’s too extreme and random and … inexplicable.”

  “Inexplicable?”

  “Come on. You were in the same meeting. You heard him.”

  “Well, I don’t care what that little man says. Just because he can’t figure out how Merrimon did it doesn’t mean the kid’s not responsible. Who knows what he has out in that swamp. Conspirators. Contraptions—”

  “I’m sorry,” the DA interrupted, holding out a hand. “Did you just say ‘contraptions’?”

  “The point, Bonnie, is that it’s premature to rule out anyone. We have an exceptional death, so exceptional measures must be taken. I’ve found his cabin.” The sheriff spread an aerial photograph across the desk. “You can see hints of roofline here and here.” He pointed. “This looks like a garden, these rows.” He met her eyes, frowning. “You’re not even looking.”

  “Because you need probable cause for a warrant, and you have none.”

  “The kid’s not right.”

  “It doesn’t make him a killer.”

  The sheriff rolled up the printout, snapped a rubber band around it. This was his third visit in two days.

  Disdain.

  That’s what Bonnie saw in his eyes. He thought her weak and easy and simple. “I’m not your enemy, Willard.”

  “You’re Clyde Hunt’s friend, and in this case, that’s the same thing.”

  “Tread carefully, now.”

  “Or what?”

  “Bring me probable cause, and I’ll take it to the judge. It’s as simple as that.” He stared across the desk, eyes blazing. She’d seen him like this before. Not often, but it happened. “Is there anything else?”

  “You weren’t here ten years ago. You didn’t see what the boy was like. He walked a terrible road, Bonnie, and it broke something deep. That means people are going to get hurt. They already are. Now, you can sit there smug and prim, looking down on me like I’m some dumb-ass redneck too far down a forty-year stretch, but you weren’t here. You’re making a mistake.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s mine alone to make.”

  “He’s dangerous, damn it.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  The sheriff straightened and stared down.

  “Probable cause,” she said. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Cline trusted two men in the deep woods. They were hunters and trappers, rawboned woodsmen who believed that if an animal walked or flew, it was there to be killed. And they’d go anywhere to do it. Private property. Parklands. They didn’t care, and they didn’t get lost. That’s what mattered to Sheriff Cline.

  He met them in a vacant field two miles from the edge of town, both men geared up with cartridge belts and snake boots and thorn-proof pants. Behind them, stubbled hills rolled into the distance, a speck of combine trundling across the last hill before the forest rose. “Jimmy Ray. Waylon. Thanks for coming on short notice. This is what I’m talking about.” The sheriff spread the aerial photograph across the hood of his cruiser. “Northern edge of the county, the swamp here, then up into the base of these hills.”

  Jimmy Ray pressed close, putting a broad palm on the corner of the printout to hold it down. His eyes were faded blue under white hair. Waylon—balding and heavier—crowded in as well. “What about your deputies?” he asked.

  “This is unsanctioned.”

  “Illegal?”

  “I just want a look around. The last time I took in uniformed officers, half of them got lost and the others wouldn’t stop bitching. The place is a maze.”

  “How large?”

  “Six thousand acres. Half is swamp, here. The rest is this stretch of hills running north.”

  Jimmy Ray leaned closer, studying the photograph, the red-ink circles indicating the garden, what looked like a roofline under hardwood trees. “You say this is Johnny Merrimon’s land?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Heard of him.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “That he’s a ghost. That he’s one of us.”

  Sheriff Cline had worried about that reaction. To people like Jimmy Ray Hill and Waylon Carter, Johnny Merrimon had become something of a hero. It was the independence and grit, the way he’d shot up a billionaire’s camp and done his time clean. “He’s nothing special,” the sheriff said. “I’ve known him a long time. Trust me.”

  “You really think he’s a killer?”

  “He either killed William Boyd or knows who did.”

  Everyone chewed on that for a bit; then Waylon tapped the map. “How long would you need me? Merrimon may own six thousand acres, but that swamp is fifty square miles. We can’t search all of it.”

  “I don’t plan to linger. Two days, maybe three. We’ll hit the cabin first, then make a plan if he’s not there. You boys in or not?” It took a moment, but Jimmy Ray nodded, and that was no surprise. “What about you, Waylon?”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff.” Waylon scratched his cheek, the top of his head. “I was thinking we’d be in and out. Tomorrow’s Danielle’s birthday. I said I’d take her to Myrtle Beach. It’s Bike Week.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I’m lucky to have a girl like Danielle.” The sheriff rolled his eyes, but Jimmy Ray nodded in agreement. Danielle had a job and her own place and a gentle disposition. “I’m really sorry, Sheriff. Any other time…”

  “All right. Fine. Jimmy Ray, it looks like it’s you and me.” The sheriff rolled up the topographical map and the aerial photograph. “You have everything you need?”

  “Gear’s in the truck.”

  “Waylon, last chance.” The big man showed his palms, and the sheriff dropped into the cruiser. “Myrtle Beach.” He shook his head and frowned. “Goddamn Bike Week.”

  * * *

  The sheriff led Jimmy Ray to his house, where he transferred gear and dropped his car. In Jimmy Ray’s truck they spoke little, but that was how it had always been. Hunting buddies. Old friends. At Hush Arbor, they drove a half mile past the gate, parked the truck, and hiked into the original settlement. Jimmy Ray had never been there, so he studied the rotted buildings, the wall of trees. “This place is old.”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  But Jimmy Ray wasn’t thinking of the buildings. The trees were tall and twisted, with a thickness of limb he’d rarely seen. “We’re on Merrimon’s land?”

  “The edge of it.”

  “Show me.”

  They met over the map, and Willard showed him where they were: the swamp, the river, the hills. “His cabin is that way. It gets wet.”

  They leaned closer to the map and aerial photographs. Beyond the church, black water moved with sluggish determination, and Jimmy Ray knew without thought that it was deep and certain, one of the main bodies draining into the river south of where they stood. He’d hunted up and down that river, but never this far north. “It’s a good location.” He tapped the area where a hint of cabin showed
. “Center of the property with a southern exposure and westerly breeze. Good water and hills at his back. Largely inaccessible.”

  “You can get us there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Gear up, then.”

  The sheriff slung a rifle and pack, but Jimmy Ray kept his eyes on the woods around them. Something was off, and it took a moment for small hairs to rise on the backs of his arms. “There’s no sound in that direction.” He pointed at the nearest woods.

  “Don’t spook on me, now.”

  Jimmy Ray put his gaze on the sky, the tree line. A woodpecker rose in a flash of red, the silence behind it still unbroken.

  “Which way?” the sheriff asked.

  Jimmy Ray nodded at the unmoving woods. “East,” he said. “Then north.”

  “All right, then. Smooth and easy.”

  They set off single file, Jimmy Ray in the lead. He’d known a few hunts as quiet as this, but only at dawn on new snow. Such mornings brought a hush that was lovely for the promise of daybreak.

  This was nothing like that.

  Stepping with the care born of long habit, Jimmy Ray moved them along dry ground, then north when the water spread. After that, the silence was behind them, too.

  “Do you feel that?” the sheriff asked.

  Jimmy Ray was unsure what he felt, but thought it was the same sense of wrongness any hunted animal might feel at the first, far cry of dogs. He pointed fingers at his eyes, then down the trail behind them.

  Watch your six.

  The sheriff nodded, looking pale. They pushed on, and mud pulled at their shoes. Jimmy Ray leaned close, whispering. “We’re moving too far east. The topo showed dry ground at least this far in. I don’t understand it.”

  “Maybe the map’s old.”

  “I’m going to take us across.”

  Holding his rifle high, he took them across a hundred yards of mud and water. Jimmy Ray made it first, then hauled the sheriff out, and led him along a narrow spit that took them farther in the wrong direction. “We have to cross again.”

  The second crossing was brutal in that it was no crossing at all. Water rose to their chests, and every promise of dry land became a broken promise. They found stumps and grass and clusters of root. Birds flitted in the distance, and for long hours, nothing changed. Shin deep. Waist deep. Nothing but water.